


all alone, open eyed

by shardmind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anthology, M/M, Tags In Chapter Summaries, Tarot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shardmind/pseuds/shardmind
Summary: if you get out of bedand find me standingall aloneopen-eyedburn the pagean anthology of 22 deancas ficlets from along the fool's journey.(rating subject to change)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 4





	1. the fool

**Author's Note:**

> this is an entirely self indulgent work in which i'm trying my best to combine my love of tarot and of writing deancas. i have a few chapters lined up but, just a warning, there is no order other than that of the major arcana. some might be canon, some might not. some chapters will be more rated than others (so anticipate a rating change in the future!) and i'll be tagging everything in the notes before each chapter - so just keep an eye out for that! 
> 
> also, for all those inquisitive minds out there, tarot is great! get into it! i've included brief meanings to help readers that aren't as familiar with tarot to get a vague understanding of what the cards mean. if you are interested, you should 100% look into the meanings, grab yourself a deck and get reading, baby! and, if you're feeling extra spicy, come talk to me about which spn character = which major arcana! I could talk about this stuff all day! 
> 
> anyway, happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the fool.](https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/fool/)  
> upright: _beginnings, innocence, spontinaeity, free spirit_  
>  reversed: _holding back, recklessness, risk taking_  
>  rated g  
> canon-compliant(ish)  
> pre-castiel’s entrance in 4x01 lazarus rising, pre-castiel having a vessel.  
> 437w
> 
> dean winchester is not listening.

Dean Winchester is not listening. Or rather, he’s listening but he doesn’t _understand_. 

In the days since Dean pushed his way out of the earth, crawled from the copse of dead saplings, and started back towards civilisation, Castiel had tried his best to communicate. Free of the darkness of hell and the gravity of his task, heralding praises for the heavens, he sings. _Dean Winchester is saved_. There is so much more to come, this he knows, but there’s time to rejoice. 

And yet, each time, his human charge would wince away from the noise, palms clamped over his ears, screaming in agony. 

He tries and tries but the tortured cacophony echoes on long after Castiel ceased his song. Dean’s face scrunches up into a grimace, struggling to stand upright past the ringing in his ears that throws his balance.

It’s uncomfortable, knowing he caused such distress. He’s not entirely sure why.

Castiel stops singing.

His brothers and sisters had always scoffed about the fragility of humans; their hot blooded impulses and their fragile minds, so easily broken by the faintest touch of heavenly might. Castiel had thought—hoped—that the fabled Michael Sword, would be different. Special.

He isn’t, and Castiel can’t help but feel a little disappointed at that. 

In Dean Winchester’s rebirth, every inch of his being had been carefully curated by the divine, sinew and muscle and blood formed anew by grace. Each breath Dean has taken since he awoke, gasping in the dirt, is because of him. Hidden in the little infinities between time and space, he created. His entire focus realigned, dedicated only to forging cells from atoms he made. He rebuilt a body; repairing shattered ribs with marrow and bone, rebuilding an entire nervous system in all its complexity, mended synapses, organs, and a whole host of insignificant things that make up just what it means to be human.

It took aeons.

And he would do it again. 

For the honor of holding Dean Winchester’s soul; pure, unmarred by the abominations of hell; he would do it all again.

The first seal was broken. Dean, whose very essence shone fierce enough to elicit envy from even the brightest of stars, whose body—battered and broken—had yielded so easily to Castiel’s care, who knew just what he’d done in hell and refused to burden his brother with that knowledge, had succumbed. Dean had broken. 

Castiel had fixed him. The damage was done but Castiel had fixed him all the same. An agent of God’s divine plan acting under orders. A good soldier.

Castiel had _saved_ him.

Hadn’t he?

Somewhere in Pontiac, Illinois, Jimmy Novak prays.


	2. the magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the magician.](https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/magician/)  
> upright: _manifestation, resourcefulness, power, inspired action_  
>  reversed: _manipulation, poor planning, untapped talents_  
>  rated t  
> college roommates au  
> recreational drug use, mention of dead parent, pining  
> 1145w
> 
> cas can't focus on his studies and dean doesn't help. or maybe he does.

Dean falls, rather than climbs, through their window. Which is a feat in itself considering the apartment is on the third floor and he’s definitely had to make a dicey jump from the fire escape to make it—Cas knows, he’s tried. He thuds to the carpet with a muted _fuck_ ,knocking down the co-parented cactus that they’d liberated from Prof Shurley’s office. Liberated, not stolen. Cas barely looks up from his notes. He’s got a final in just over a week and no matter how many times he reads back through his books and papers and all manner of other additional supporting texts, nothing seems to be going in. Or, at least, going in and staying there. 

Whoever said college life would be fun definitely wasn’t in any of Chuck Shurley’s theology classes. He sighs, shuts his laptop, lets his head hit the desk with a soft thud and contemplates the pros and cons of dropping out. 

Maybe it would help if his roommate wasn’t crawling in like a rebellious teen trying to visit his lover’s without the notice of their strict religious parents at—he glances at his phone, ignoring the three missed calls and eight unread texts—two am on a Friday. 

But that’s just Dean and, when he smiles, so full of unwarranted confidence, with half-lidded eyes and effortless laughs— you just can’t say no to that. 

“Hey, Cas?” Dean winces when he pushes himself up from where he landed, thick dirt smudge on his forehead from his unfortunate accident with their adopted plant. Cas sighs. Again. He’d got into the habit of doing that, ever since Crowley had made a comment about him going prematurely grey in their first year and affectionately (or not) introducing him to new people as ‘an old man trapped in a hot body’. 

God, Cas hates him. It’s a shame they’re friends.

“Cas.” 

He groans, turning to face him fully. “Yes?”

Dean looks up at him, sat cross legged on the floor against their couch with that same disarming smile he’d worn when they’d first met, back when they were both wet behind the ears, naive and hopeful— and woefully unaware of how many bad habits you develop in college, and just how many of those are people. He has no business being that pretty, and yet he is; all eyelashes and freckles, sharp jaw and wicked smirk and a spark in his eyes that never quite goes out. 

There’s just something about him; Kansas born and raised—all yes ma’am’s and southern hospitality—with an absent father and the looming shadow of a dead mother, first born but always somehow second best. Cas knows he’s been dragged through hell, thrown to the dirt again and again but still he stands and he smiles, dusts himself off and finds a way. He always finds a way. 

He uses all the hurt, all the rage, and transforms it into something good. Or something better. A catalyst. An alchemist. Pain turned golden.

Sometimes, when he slips into Cas’ bed at night instead of his own, lips tasting of salt and cheap beer, he gets enough of a glimpse through the cracks to see who Dean Winchester really is. They don’t talk about it, but they don’t dismiss it either—seeking each other out in the dark. 

He pulls two inexpertly rolled joints from his pocket, slightly crumpled but still intact. “You wanna get high?” 

Cas looks to his notes, covered in red ink and obnoxious yellow highlighter and they make less sense now than they have all night. 

_Fuck it._

He pushes off the chair and flops down next to Dean on the floor, letting his head settle on his jacketed shoulder. Dean laughs, reaching one hand around Cas’s shoulders to tug him closer. He’s warm, despite having just come in from the bitter cold outside, and it has Cas settling into his side. There’s a familiar click of a lighter and a deep inhale followed by the familiar cloying scent. 

Dean takes his two hits in silence and holds the slender thing out to him. 

“Benny skimping on his rolls?” He eyes the anaemic blunt incredulously before taking it anyway, letting the weight of it hit his throat and settle deep in his chest before letting it all flow out on the exhale, dragging his worries out with the smoke.

“Fuck you, I made these myself.” Dean scoffs, letting his head hit the couch cushions with a soft thud. Cas takes his second. “Thought you could use a break. Just a reminder, you know?”

“Reminder of what?”

“That you got this, Cas. You always do. You just gotta do it, you know?” He takes the joint from Cas’ fingers—almost touching but not quite—and places it between his own dry lips, inhaling steadily, slowly. Time stops and it’s just the two of them, surrounded by fumes and each other. “You’re in your head too much, man. Sometimes you just gotta channel all that shit and make it happen. Take a leap.”

Dean’s not looking at him, intentionally or not, but Cas can see his eyes glitter in the dim light. Then they’re slipping closed and he smiles as smoke slips from his nose. 

“Is this still about Shurley’s final?” He steals the joint back, taking his own drag and letting the familiar heaviness weight in his limbs. It’s hitting him already and he can’t even feel embarrassed about it, revelling in how he’s floating but still grounded, still safe. Dean leans forward, chuckling to himself and then he fixes Castiel with a look; heavy lids and soft eyes and a half smile that’s just _everything_. Something tugs inside his chest, although he’s not quite sure what that means. 

“Make you feel any better if it was?” It comes out as almost a whisper, not that it matters because they’re sat so close, but he’s not looking at Cas. He’s looking at his lips, eyes fixed on something Cas can’t see. Cas responds by wetting them, tongue swiping across the bottom, tasting the sweet and ashy spice and when Dean follows the movements, he knows.

“Dean,” He starts, not able to help the smile that tugs at his lips when Dean looks up at him. He takes another hit, deep and languid, before handing the dwindling joint back. “If you want to kiss me, I’d be amenable to that.” 

“Amenable? Did you eat a thesaurus for dinner?” Dean smiles right back, everything edged with a softness that hadn’t been there before. He’s closer, leaning in ever so slightly and Cas can taste the warmth of his breath. He’s not sure what part of his brain is controlling his body right now but he’s perfectly okay with it, drawn in by whatever magnetic force connects them, too strong to resist—not that he ever would.

“Shut up.” He breathes. 

Dean laughs. “Fuck yeah.”

He leaps.


	3. the high priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the high priestess.](https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/high-priestess/)  
> upright: _intuition, spiritual insight, mystery, things yet to be revealed_  
>  reversed: _information withheld, lack of personal harmony, secrets_  
>  rated g  
> canon divergent from 15.19  
> (jack brought cas back from the empty before he dipped)  
> pining, saileen mention, dean thinking about cas for 600+ words  
> 639w
> 
> he knows what he has to do.
> 
> i wrote this while listening to [i know the end - phoebe bridgers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJ9-xN6dCW4) (confirmed heller) so, there's that.

Sam took off early on Saturday. Something about Eileen needing backup with a case in Casper. Wendigo, maybe? Vampires? Dean wasn’t really listening when he first mentioned it, distracted by Baby’s oil filters and the steady drip of black into the tray beside his head. It doesn’t really matter what’s rearing its head in Wyoming, not really. Eileen had called and it’d take a lot more than two states and an eight-hour drive to keep his brother away. Boy’s smitten. He knows it. Eileen knows it. Even Cas had quirked a brow seeing Sam splutter when Jody brought it up last time they were at dinner, referring to the hunter as his better half.

Not that Dean would admit to noticing that. 

Without Sam there, it’s just the two of them. Him and Cas. The bunker’s big enough for that not to be a problem. Not that Dean’s trying to avoid him. Quite the opposite, actually.

It’s just, he thought after everything—Purgatory, Chuck, Billie, Jack, the friggin’ Empty—that things would go back to how they were, or at least close to it. He’d hoped life would return to whatever normal was for them. Then again, has anything ever been normal? 

Dean tried to push it down. ‘It’ being whatever it is that’s been growing in his chest for the past twelve years, ever since Cas pulled him out of the dark. ‘Tried’ being the operative word.

When Jack returned him, slipped him from between this world and the next, as easy as breathing, Dean hadn’t had the luxury of higher brain function. He ran, flung his arms around the angel’s shoulders and wept for the second time that week. Sam had joined in too. For the first time in years, his family had felt whole. 

Thankfully, they settled into bunker life with Sam as their buffer. He doesn’t know about the confession, and why should he? The moment was personal. Theirs. The memory of it weighs on him daily, each word a stone in his gut. Cas doesn’t bring it up and Dean doesn’t want to ruin the relationship—such a fickle thing—that exists between them now. Just like Cas said: happiness isn’t in the having. 

It’s in the being. It’s in just saying it.

It’s not a question of _if_ he reciprocates. Love is something he never thought he could have, never thought he’d be able to understand. Yet Cas stripped him bare, down to his deepest insecurities, gave the silent nebulous thing between them a voice and still loved him then.

Dean’s not sure he has the words to describe how he feels. He’s not sure if he ever will. There are a lot of things he’s not sure about. 

But, there are a lot of things he is: Sam’s unwavering support and secret love of Celine Dion, Jody and Donna’s faith in all their girls, Claire’s razor wit and adoration of the angel wearing the face of her father, Baby’s roar on the flat roads leading out of Kansas, the bunker, Jack. 

Cas is one of them.

Dean might not be great with words. He might not know how to approach things delicately. He might always be a self-hating son of a bitch. He might drink too much, swear too much and lose himself in hunts sometimes. He might feel like John Winchester still pulls his strings from wherever he ended up. He might feel like he failed his family, his brother, all the friends he lost along the way. He might not know how to let himself be loved. 

But dammit, he can sure as hell try. 

He knows what he has to do.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me you [love](https://twitter.com/shardminds) me
> 
> series title from little dark age - mgmt


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